You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.” ((How do you respond?))
Karthurg lowers himself onto a cushion opposite the hag. "Ug wise azh, mi am honoured dat laht wish to hear my life story. Mi was born under the yellow sand, to da clan of Azog, 18 short years ago. My father waz a blacksmith following the traditions of the clan. He was a strict orc," at this Karthurg shifts uncomfortably and nearly knocks over one of the candles, "but he instilled in mi the strict honor code of the uruks, which mi live my life by. Mi worzhip Krug and the other zpiritz, az all hozh urukz zhould." Karthurg brushes his hand through his long braids. "My father wished for mi to follow in his foot septa and take up smithing but mi instead chose to set on on a pilgrimage to seek out those uruks whu have lost deir way agh re-educate dem in the honour of the uruk. Azh day maybe mi will even bekum a zhaman. " Karthurg sighs and stands up, so fast that he brushes the top of his head against the roof of the tent. He quickly crouched back down and rubbed his head with his hand. "thank laht for listening to my story agh mi wish laht hozh health."
